


The Road Ahead

by A_Hodgepodge_of_Nothings



Category: True Detective
Genre: M/M, post-carcosa
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-06-30
Updated: 2015-08-15
Packaged: 2018-04-07 00:19:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,900
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4242279
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/A_Hodgepodge_of_Nothings/pseuds/A_Hodgepodge_of_Nothings
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tracking Marty and Rust's physical and mental healing after the events of season 1.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

The first time Rust comes to, he sees the sun. Only it isn’t the one he expects.

Marty sits dozing in a wheelchair by the right side of Rust’s hospital bed, and Rust wonders how long he’s been there.

The first coherent thought Rust has is that he isn’t dead. The second is that Sofia isn’t here.

His brain whirs, trying to make sense of what happened. The world doesn’t feel real yet. Everything is too bright and his body feels too heavy, like his brain isn’t quite attached all the way. There’s a throbbing sensation around his middle. He’s tired. He’s numb.

Sofia isn’t here.

Marty is.

Rust lets the darkness wash over him again.

 

The second time Rust opens his eyes, Marty is still sitting by his bed. Rust doesn’t know how much time has passed. Marty’s looking up at the tv screen across the room while slurping loudly through a straw.

Rust sees the bruising on Marty’s cheek and jaw, and everything clicks into place.

Carcosa. The giant. Pain. Marty holding him. Dying. Sofia. Not dying?

“Marty,” he grunts, and Marty starts so badly he nearly drops his cup.

“Rust!” he exclaims, and Rust can see the pure relief wash over Marty’s features. Marty instinctively reaches out and Rust turns his palm upward without much thought, allowing Marty’s fingers to wrap around his. “Jesus, Rust, I thought you were never gonna wake up.” Marty scoots his wheelchair closer to the bed, shoving the cup between his knees and resting his other arm on the edge of the mattress.

As he moves closer, Rust gets a better view of Marty’s face. He looks tired, the lines around his eyes deeper than usual and a tightness around his jaw that Rust isn’t used to seeing. Purple and blue bruising mottles the entire left half of his face.

“You been waitin’ in here the whole time?” Rust asks, his words slurring slightly. He wonders how much pain medication they have him on. Not enough by any means.

“Nahh,” Marty replies casually, shifting in the chair. “Just checkin’ in now and then.”

Rust knows it’s a lie but doesn’t call him out on it. “How long have I been out?”

The worry lines reappear on Marty’s forehead. “Two full days since surgery. The doc said your vitals appeared to heading in the right direction and you were breathing on your own which was a good sign. But you just… weren’t waking up.”

Rust’s eyes travel down from Marty’s face to his chest, his hospital gown covering the wound Rust knows is lying just underneath. “How’s that doing?” Rust rasps, and Marty gives a half-shrug.

“Ain’t too bad. Gettin’ better every day. Can’t imagine it’s much compared to what you’re feelin’ right now.”

“Can’t feel too much, currently,” Rust murmurs, making some of the concern lift from Marty’s eyes. It isn’t true, of course. Every part of him feels like it’s been bludgeoned with a hammer.

He wants to close his eyes and drift off again. The reality that he is still very much alive is a difficult one to face. He remembers feeling his daughter, feeling her love surrounding him and filling the deepest corners of his being, and then letting the blackness take him away. How he’s now lying in a hospital with his vitals lighting up the monitor beside the bed is a mystery.

“I shouldn’t be here,” he says, his voice small and tired.

“Yeah, well…” Marty scratches the back of his neck, unsure how to respond. “For what it’s worth, I’m glad you are.” He grips Rust’s hand more tightly for a moment, then draws away. “I’m not supposed to be out of my room this long. Nurse is gonna come hunt my ass down. I’ll be back in a little while, buddy.”

Rust watches him roll slowly out of the room and wishes he would come back. The overwhelming loneliness is nearly too much to bear. The white ceiling and walls are already pressing in on him. The light is too blue, the beeping from the monitor a continual drone that grates on his ears. He’s not tied down but might as well be; moving out of the bed would be impossible if he cared to try.

Rust feels the panic starting to bubble up in his chest, surging up the back of his throat. Sofia is out of his reach and now Marty is too. Despite the overly bright ceiling lights glaring down at him from above, Rust feels as though he is sitting in the dark.

 

 

 

 

Marty is overjoyed when Rust finally wakes up. He’s been finding every excuse to leave his room and wheel to Rust’s, waiting by the edge of his bed for any sign of movement or life.

Rust looks downright awful; his face is a bruised mess, one eye swollen and so purple it nearly looks black. He’s still pale as death, the white bandages around his arm and middle only a few shades lighter than his skin. Rust’s long hair is disheveled around his face, and more than once Marty finds himself reaching out to push a few strands back into place.

Once Rust is up, Marty makes a point of visiting him as often as he can. Marty’s had visitors- Maggie and the girls, a few of his old work buddies, even a few clients- but he knows Rust is getting no company besides the routine checkups from the nurses. Marty’s been in the room for a few of those, noticing how Rust can barely move on his own. It shocks Marty how weak Rust looks and it stirs up the same aching sensation he felt while watching Rust slowly drag the knife out of his stomach on the floor of the cave.

Marty can see that Rust doesn’t like the nurses and downright despises the doctor. He can’t blame him as he, too, labeled the doc as a total prick from the moment they were introduced. Smug bastard.

There’s a strange look in Rust’s eyes now that Marty can’t quite place. He can’t remember ever seeing it before. It’s like he’s a glass placed precariously on a counter edge; one push and he’ll fall, shatter into a thousand pieces. Sometimes Marty catches Rust staring off into space, completely lost in thought, his mind clearly in another place altogether. Sometimes he’ll look up and find that Rust has been watching him, half-lidded eyes boring into his own. It’s mildly unsettling.

The nurses get used to Marty spending most of his time in Rust’s room. If he’s gone it’s the first place they’ll come to look. Marty wonders if he’s spending too much time by Rust’s bedside, but each time he rolls through the door Rust’s face very subtly lights up. Marty stops worrying.

 

Marty is in the room when Gilbough and Papania come in.

“Cohle,” they greet Rust, carrying in matching cups of coffee and notepads.

Rust’s face is a mask. “What the fuck are you doing here?”

They don’t answer immediately, and Papania turns to Marty with a forced smile. “Hart, good to see you up and around,” he says.

Marty tilts his head. “Not sure a wheelchair really counts,” he points out.

“We need to get your statement from the other night,” Gilbough addresses Rust pointedly. “We already talked to Hart.”

“Then you know what happened,” Rust cuts him off bluntly. “Fuck off.”

Marty shoots him a look but says nothing, lacing his fingers together on his lap. Rust is obviously tired and hurting, and Marty already knows how this conversation will go.

“You know how this works,” Papania raises an eyebrow. “You were at the crime scene. You were the first one to go through that fucking maze. You shot a man in the head, for Christ’s sake. We need to get your statement.”

Rust’s eyes turn hard as stone. “Yeah? Should I start before or after I got my fucking stomach slit open and watched Marty take a hatchet to the chest? Get the fuck out of my room.” Marty can see his hands shaking where they’re curled into the sheets, his knuckles gone completely white. His jaw is twitching, and Marty makes a split-second decision. He isn’t sure how he manages to get the two detectives out of the room, but they end up all standing- and in Marty’s case, sitting- in the hallway outside the door.

“We need to get his statement, Hart. Procedure,” Papania frowns, earning a nod from Marty.

“Yeah, I’m aware. But Rust isn’t feeling too talkative right now and nothing either of us does is gonna change that. If I were you I’d give it a few days. It’s not gonna slow you down too much getting this now or getting it later. You already talked to me. If anyone gives you any flack just say he’s still in bad shape after surgery.”

Marty can see they don’t like it, but they end up leaving all the same. He rolls back into the room and finds Rust staring resolutely away from him.

“Well I bought you some time,” he tells Rust, “but sooner or later you’re gonna have to get it over with.”

Rust nods once. Marty knows that talking about what happened is painful. It’s almost like reliving the whole thing over again. He’s sure it’s just as bad, if not worse for Rust.

He hears Rust sniff and clear his throat, face still hidden. “Thanks, Marty,” he says, voice sounding a bit raw.

 

Marty is also in the room the day Rust asks how long it will be before he can leave. The doctor stands at the end of the bed holding a clipboard and looking as smug as usual. Rust has told the doctor to fuck off a few times, so Marty makes a point of sending Rust dirty looks to keep him in check.

The doc has been talking for a few minutes, his voice droning on as he flips through the papers on his clipboard.

Rust interrupts, ignoring Marty’s scandalized expression. “How much longer do I have to stay here?” he grunts.

“Well this was a severe wound. Spinal and core injuries are always the most difficult to recover from. You need core for just about everything: walking, sitting up, lifting arms and legs. You’ve got a long road ahead of you, but you should only need to be here in the hospital another few weeks.” He smiles as though he has delivered good news.

Marty sees Rust’s face fall. It’s subtle, but Marty picks it up in a second.

“A few weeks.” Rust repeats flatly. All energy has drained from his voice.

“We’ll need to keep a close eye on you until we’re sure the stitches are going to hold,” the doctor explains. “If anything goes wrong you’ll need immediate help. Assuming this all goes smoothly, you should be discharged as soon as I think you’re in the clear. After that we’ll need to work out your living situation as you won’t be able to stay anywhere on your own for a while during the rest of the recovery period.”

Marty looks over at Rust again, but Rust’s eyes are trained downward to the sheets where his fingers are picking at loose threads.

“Well I know I’ve given you a lot to think about,” the doctor smiles. “I’ll leave you two for the time being. Mr. Hart, Mr. Cohle.” He raises his clipboard in salute and exits, leaving Marty and Rust sitting in the silent room.

Rust doesn’t say anything, just keeps fiddling with the threads and looking defeated.

“Rust,” Marty says gently. “A few weeks ain’t that bad. It’s just to make sure you keep healing.” He wonders what Rust expected to hear. Considering the guy still can’t even sit up properly on his own, Marty thinks that ‘a few weeks’ sounds pretty damn optimistic.

Rust bites the inside of one cheek and lets his head fall back on the pillows. He looks completely drained, the dark circles around his sunken eyes more pronounced than ever. “I fucking hate hospitals,” he says, his voice tight.

“I know you do,” Marty nods, not sure how to cheer Rust up. He looks more depressed than he has in days. “But, Rust, you _need_ to be here right now so they can help you heal up and get out.”

“And go where?” Rust asks in a dull voice. “You heard him, I won’t even be able to live on my own.”

 _Obviously,_ Marty thinks, but keeps that particular remark to himself. “Yeah, well, you’re gonna need some serious help while you’re recoverin’.”

“Marty,” Rust says, his voice catching. “I don’t… I don’t have anyone to help me.” He turns his face slightly away, and Marty can see the lines of his throat jumping as he swallows.

Marty feels a lump form in his throat, hand reaching out and catching Rust’s elbow. “Fuck, Rust, you think I’m about to let you go hobble off to god-knows-where and try to stick this out on your own? We started this together, we’re gonna get through it together.”

Rust turns back to face Marty, face unreadable, surveying him with slightly watery eyes.

Marty shifts, clearing his throat. “If, you know, you want my help. I get it if… well, I would understand if you...” He feels his ears and neck turning red.

Rust doesn’t say anything. His eyes lower from Marty’s, settling on the material covering Marty’s right collarbone. Marty’s sitting close enough that when Rust reaches out, his hand easily settles over the place where the hatchet had buried itself into Marty’s chest. They sit like that for a while, Marty holding Rust’s elbow, Rust’s large palm pressing flat against Marty’s chest. Rust’s breathing deepens, and Marty watches as he drifts off, sleep washing over him peacefully. His hand slowly drops, fingers tracing down Marty’s chest and sending a cold shiver up his spine.

Marty carefully moves Rust’s arm back onto the bed, thinking that while Rust didn’t verbally accept his offer, he sure as hell didn’t reject it either. Small victories.

 

 

The days crawl by.

Marty is released and finds himself less anxious to get home than he thought he would be. When he stops by to tell Rust that he’s heading home, Rust won’t quite meet his eyes. Marty promises to visit as often as he can, to which Rust just shrugs and says, “Don’t worry about it, Marty.”

Marty makes a point of returning every day.

He starts working again but takes off at one every day, driving to the hospital and spending the afternoons with Rust. He brings him books, magazines, anything to help get his mind off being stuck there. Some days they sit and talk. Some days it seems like there’s really nothing to say and they sit in silence.

The bruises are slowly fading off Rust’s face, marking the slow passage of time. He is able to move to a sitting position, but getting up is still out of the question. Marty can sense Rust’s growing frustration with the situation.

Several times Marty asks Rust what’s really bothering him. He knows Rust feels guilty about having seen Childress on the lawn mower back in ’95. Knows he can’t stand the fact that many of the men in the tape weren’t caught. Knows he’s frustrated about how slowly he’s healing. But there’s something lurking below all of it that Marty can’t put his finger on.

They don’t bring up what happened in the cave. Marty doesn’t know how much of it after a certain point Rust even remembers. He notices that Rust isn’t eating, tending to look nauseated at the plates of food the nurses bring in and push them away mostly untouched. Marty asks him if there’s anything he really wants to eat and Rust wistfully replies, “Blueberries.”

The next day Marty smuggles him in a blueberry smoothie, and it’s the happiest Rust has looked in days. He closes his eyes as he drinks, hands clutching the Styrofoam cup like it’s the most precious gift he’s ever received.

 

The worst day for Marty is when he tells Rust he needs to eat more. Rust glares at him, then moodily stabs a few more peas with the plastic fork and forces them down. Moments later Rust is retching onto his plate, curling in on himself as pain rips through his core. The tray slides to the floor in a mess of mashed potatoes and peas. His hands clutch at his side, where a red stain is appearing across the white bandage.

Marty is yelling for help and Rust is vomiting and shaking, gasping at the pain cutting through him. Marty is shuffled out of the room where he stands trembling in the hallway. He can’t move to sit down, just stands outside stiffly, waiting. When he is allowed back in several hours later, Rust is out cold and hopped up on more pain killers. The bandages have been replaced, a fresh white layer now in place where the red had been earlier. Marty sits by the bed and rests his face in his hands, wondering if it was his fault.

 

The worst day for Rust is when Marty doesn’t come. He always shows up by two p.m. at the latest, but the tiny clock on the wall is reading three-thirty and Marty is nowhere to be seen. Rust tells himself that Marty has a life outside of this room, has things to do and can’t drop everything to visit him. He tries not to remind himself that Marty is the sole bright patch of every day and the reason he hasn’t completely lost his mind to the storm of confusion lurking there. There’s a swarm of emotions that he can’t get a grip on. He doesn’t want to be alive. In fact he regrets it constantly. He longs to be with Sofia and feel her love so clearly again. At the same time, he’s grateful he woke up and got to see Marty. Every time Marty enters the room he feels a strange tug deep in his chest. Occasionally he can hear very faint clips of Marty talking, and he knows it’s just an echo of his words in the cave. The cave. That place constantly haunts his thoughts above all else.

Rust finds himself checking the clock routinely, getting a pang in his gut every time another half hour has passed and Marty still hasn’t arrived. He’s halfway convinced himself that Marty isn’t planning on coming back again when at five after eight there’s a rap on the door and it swings open. Marty looks exceedingly guilty, apologizing half a dozen times even when Rust waves it off. He tells Rust that he had driven to New Orleans to see the little place where Audrey is selling her art and got caught in bad traffic on the way home.

“Nasty wreck on the interstate,” Marty shakes his head. “Traffic was so bad I had the car turned off and everything to save gas. Real pain in the ass, hot as it was today.”

“It’s alright, man, I figured you just had stuff to do,” Rust shrugs.

“Yeah, well, I shoulda called or something,” Marty says remorsefully. “Here, I stopped and picked this up on the way over. Technically it’s not part of your diet, but I figured there can be exceptions.”

Rust opens the plastic container and finds a piece of blueberry pie.

“It’s from that little bakery not too far from my house. Hope it’s alright, I’ve never tried the blueberry.”

Rust takes a bite and savors every minute of the taste. It’s the best pie he thinks he’s ever eaten.

“Fuck, that’s good, Marty,” he says, spearing another bite.

“Good,” Marty sighs, looking relieved. “Oh, also,” he pulls out a pack of hair ties from his pocket, “I grabbed you these. Tired of that mess you call hair. C’mere.”

Rust leans forward slightly as he eats and lets Marty gather his hair back into its usual ponytail. Marty throws the rest of the pack on the bedside counter and plops down in the chair, propping a foot up onto the bed. 

The day turns out to be alright after all.

 

 

One night, Marty finally finds out what’s been eating at Rust.

Rust isn’t walking yet, but Marty is allowed to bring him around in a wheelchair. Rust is anxious to get outside of the harsh white walls that surround him all day. When Marty hands him the small box containing a pack of Camels, Rust feels a surge of affection and Marty smiles at how genuinely pleased he looks.

It’s while they’re out in the parking lot that Marty asks Rust how he’s doing and Rust finally gives him an honest answer. Marty isn’t sure why Rust finally decides to tell him. Doesn’t know why this night ends up being the one where everything comes out in the open. Maybe the dominoes have all finally fallen into place. Rust’s wall simply crumbles away and leaves him sobbing into one hand while Marty kneels beside him and rubs his shoulder.

He’s has never seen Rust cry like this, emotions ripped open as he sits there and shakes. Marty wants to gather him into a hug, hold onto him, let him know he doesn’t need to work through this on his own. Instead he lets his hand settle warm onto Rust’s shoulder, a reassuring pressure that Rust leans into as he fights to get his breathing under control.

Marty talks to him gently, helps him calm down, and both of them realize that something has changed between them. There’s a new familiarity hovering just out of sight, a new branch of trust that has grown out of the old, crooked tree.

As Marty gets ready to wheel Rust back to the building, Rust makes up his mind that he’s leaving. He’s had enough of being stuck in the hospital. He reaches behind him and finds Marty’s arm with his hand, using it to pull himself up.

Marty curses, hurrying around the side of the wheelchair to assist him. Rust wraps his arms around Marty’s neck without hesitation and Marty places his hands on Rust’s sides, carefully helping him stand. Rust is unsteady on his feet, and Marty can feel him nearly overbalance as he straightens.

They end up with one of Rust’s arms anchored around Marty neck, Marty gripping that hand tightly and slinging his left arm low around Rust’s back. His hand settles against the other man’s waist, pulling them together and allowing Rust to shift most of his weight onto Marty as they start to slowly trudge forward. Marty knows Rust hasn’t tried to walk much yet and can only see this plan going poorly.

“You know what,” Marty grunts, “I’d protest, but it occurred to me that you’re un-killable.” They make several steps, Rust gingerly moving forward like every movement is difficult. Marty fights the instinct to lift Rust off the ground and deposit him back in the wheelchair. If this is really what Rust wants, Marty realizes, then he’s going to try his best to help even if he thinks it’s insane.

They’re halfway across the parking lot when it really hits Marty that he may have actually lost his mind. No sane person would allow Rust to walk away from the hospital in his current state. Marty grips Rust’s hand more firmly, shifting his hold around his waist as he supports more and more of Rust’s weight. Rust is shuffling forward resolutely, looking like a ghost with his hospital gown and bare feet. The light that had filled his eyes upon Marty’s agreement to help him leave has been replaced by a grimace of determination.

“Rust, this is fucking crazy,” Marty says, slowing to a halt. “We should-”

“We ain’t goin’ back,” Rust cuts him off, sounding short of breath. “I can make it, Marty.”

Marty’s brow furrows, a slight frown pulling at his lips. “Look, Rust, I don’t want you to be stuck in a hospital any more than you do, but I don’t know if you can get the care you need if you just take off.”

Rust’s free hand, still gripping the box of cigarettes like a lifeline, starts shaking. “Marty, please,” he begs, his voice flat and raw, and Marty looks up to see Rust’s eyes, still red from crying moments before, boring into his own.

The matter is settled.

“Ok,” Marty agrees with a sigh. “Ok, Rust. But you should know I’m not lettin’ you out of my sight until you’re in the clear. I ain’t fucking kidding, man.”

“I can live with that,” Rust grunts, shuffling forward again toward the few cars parked in a line several meters away. “Not like I could get anywhere quick. You been drivin’ my truck?” he asks with a frown, not sounding truly bothered.

“Oh, yeah, well my car was stuck inside the crime scene for a while before I was allowed to get it out. Just sorta got into the habit of using yours,” he shrugs.

They reach the passenger-side door and Rust slips his arm off Marty’s shoulders, bracing himself against the side of the truck. Marty pulls the door open, noticing that Rust isn’t making a move to get in. He stands studying the two foot gap from the ground to the floor of the truck like it’s some insurmountable barrier. Marty mentally slaps himself, realizing that it probably _is._ Rust can barely walk like a human, how is he supposed to raise his leg high enough to hoist himself inside the truck?

“Shit, sorry, guess I should have taken my car instead,” Marty apologizes. “Didn’t think you’d be leavin’ with me.”

“It’s fine. Give me a hand, here,” Rust says, reaching out for Marty.

Marty takes his arm and waist again, trying to hold up as much of his weight as he can to allow Rust to swing a leg into the truck. It doesn’t work. There’s a lot of swearing and Rust ends up staggering back against Marty when pain wrenches through his abdomen.

“Fuck. Hang on.” Marty releases his hold on Rust’s arm, careful to keep his hand anchored on his waist in case he should fall. He bends down, scooping Rust’s legs up under the knees and lifting him easily into the truck. Marty expects a sarcastic comment of some variety but Rust doesn’t say anything, just sets his jaw and presses a hand against his stomach. His silence worries Marty more than any comment he could have made. “You ok?” Marty asks, and Rust nods.

Biting his bottom lip, Marty makes his way around the truck to the driver side and slips inside, starting the ignition and then reaching across Rust to pull his seatbelt over his lap.

“Seriously?” Rust grunts, quirking an eyebrow, and Marty fights the old urge to flip him off.

“Last thing we need is one of us ending up in the hospital from a fucking car accident,” Marty replies, suddenly wondering when he became so worried about seatbelts. _Just being paranoid, after everything,_ he thinks.

“Don’t get in an accident, then,” Rust replies dryly, making Marty roll his eyes with a huff.

“Like I was really planning on it.”

 “We goin’ back to your place?” Rust asks.

“Figured so. I live a lot closer to the hospital just in case anything…” he trails off and waves a hand. “Anyway, I got more than enough room so I thought this would be easiest.”

“Sure, Marty,” he says, and that’s that.

As the truck pulls out of the parking lot Rust stares through the windshield at the starry sky above. He knows there’s a long road ahead, but for the first time in as long as he can remember he thinks that things just might be alright.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Follow up to "Thoughts in the Dark". I wanted to spend some time on a few clips of what happened while Rust and Marty were still in the hospital. Hope you enjoyed :)


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a relatively slow chapter. It tracks what happens the night when Marty first brings Rust home, as well as the next morning, sort of play-by-play. Lots of casual bantering (and perhaps a snuggle or two).

The drive doesn't go as horribly as Marty expects, but it's far from a smooth trip. They don’t talk much, Rust keeping his eyes closed for a good portion of the ride. Marty glances over at him occasionally just to make sure he’s ok and Rust grunts for him to keep his eyes on the road, turning his face so that Marty can't see his expression. At one point the truck hits a particularly jarring bump in the road and Rust lets out a strangled noise, his hand automatically finding Marty’s arm and fisting in his shirt sleeve.

Marty curses and pulls over, letting the truck idle. “You ok?” he asks for the second time in ten minutes. Rust’s knuckles are white where they grip his shirt.

“Mmhm,” he breathes, looking tense. “Just give me a minute.”

They sit in silence. Marty’s eyes flick between Rust’s face and his bandaged side, just visible through the slit in the hospital gown. He waits to see the telltale red stain, but nothing happens. Rust eventually relaxes and lets out a long breath. “Let’s try to avoid potholes from now on.”

“Yeah, you ain’t kiddin’,” Marty nods, shifting into drive and heading slowly back down the road. He makes a mental note to pay better attention to any uneven patches in the pavement. Briefly he is aware that Rust’s hand never left his arm, still loosely holding onto him. He wonders if Rust even knows he’s doing it.

Ten more minutes has them pulling into Marty’s driveway. A light shines through the kitchen windows and Marty realizes he must have forgotten to turn it off when he left earlier. It’s almost like the house is awake, waiting up for them. The thought makes him smile.

When he walks to Rust’s side of the truck, Rust wraps an arm around Marty’s shoulder and lets Marty lift him out of the truck without a word of complaint. Even when his feet are back on the ground, Rust lets Marty halfway carry him through the doorway into the house.

Rust eyes the couch in the living room and assumes this is where Marty plans on letting him sleep. To his surprise Marty gently nudges him down the hall to his own bedroom. They stop several times to let Rust catch his breath, and Rust staggers so badly once he knows he would have fallen if Marty had not been there with sturdy hands keeping him upright.

When they finally make it to the bedroom, Marty deposits Rust on the edge of the bed where he can sit up easily on his own.

“You can sleep in here,” Marty tells him, hovering just beside the bed. “The mattress ain’t half bad.”

Rust makes a mental comparison to the hospital bed he’s been stuck on and thinks that Marty’s bed seems positively luxurious. Half of him wants to tell Marty that he can’t give up his own bed, but the other half sees that it’s a lost argument. Rust knows that Marty is the most downright stubborn human alive when his mind is set. “Alright,” he says tiredly, blinking sleepily in the dim light from the lamp on the bedside table. He feels completely exhausted, the short trip draining him of any energy he had left.

Marty keeps standing where he is, looking concerned and rubbing one hand up and down his sweatpants leg. Rust knows the look well and can almost hear the gears turning behind Marty’s forehead. Rust watches him but doesn’t say anything, waiting for Marty to spit out whatever’s on his mind.

He finally speaks up, his ears turning slightly red. “You, uh, you mind if I sleep in here, Rust? Not in the bed, obviously. I just- I feel weird being in the other room and leaving you in here alone.”

Rust studies Marty for a moment under half-lidded eyes before answering. “I ain’t gonna die in my sleep if that’s what you think.”

“Yeah, well, if I’m in the living room and something happens, how are you gonna let me know?” Marty asks. “You gonna walk all the way there? Shit, Rust, you couldn’t even make the ten feet from the truck to the front door.”

Rust has to admit that part is true. “I could always just fucking yell your name.”

“Yeah, if you’re bleeding out or some shit I’m sure you’re gonna have the energy to fucking yell for me. What if you just need to get up and take a piss, Rust? What then? You gonna crawl to the bathroom?”

One of Rust’s eyebrows quirks upward. “Marty, I don’t mind if you sleep in here,” he says softly.

Marty relaxes his stance but his ears still burn a bright red. “Well that’s… Well ok. Good. I’m gonna go get some extra pillows.”

Rust remains sitting on the edge of the bed and watches while Marty carries in several of the couch pillows as well as the blanket he had seen in the living room as they had passed through. “You just sleepin’ on the floor?”

“Yup,” Marty says briskly, leaving the room and coming back with a bottle of water for Rust, which he places on the nightstand. “Don’t want you tryin’ to get up if you get thirsty,” he tells him. Marty helps Rust off the bed and pulls down the sheets, making sure to push the comforter to the side where it is easily reachable without having to move from a lying position.

“You need anything?” Marty asks, and Rust nods.

“Help me outta this thing,” he says, plucking at the thin material of the hospital gown still hanging loosely around him.

Marty gingerly pulls it off, taking care not to make Rust lift his arms too much as he does so. Rust isn’t wearing anything underneath except the bandages and Marty makes a point of not glancing down too far. He’s not overly bothered by the fact that Rust is naked; his attention is drawn more to how thin Rust had gotten during his stay in the hospital. Marty had felt how light he was getting when helping him to and from the car, but seeing it up close was a whole other thing.

“You want some shorts or something?” he asks, keeping a hand secured on Rust’s arm as he tosses the crumpled hospital gown into the trash can by the door.

“I’d just as soon go without, if it doesn’t bother you any,” Rust replies, and Marty just shrugs. If Rust wants to sleep naked then he can go ahead. Anything to make him more comfortable. He helps Rust back onto the bed and Rust draws up the sheets, wincing as his hand grazes the bandage across his middle.

“How bad does it still hurt?” Marty asks, gesturing to the covered wound.

“Sorta comes and goes,” Rust mutters, obviously trying to blow it off.

Marty grunts. “Well if it gets too bad, let me know.”

Rust nods, thinking _What could you do about it, Marty?_ but doesn’t speak the thought aloud.

Marty switches off the light, pulling off his shirt and sweatpants and flopping onto the blanket on the floor in the corner. They both lie in the darkness,and Rust dozes off first. He’s in a real fucking bed for the first time in what feels like months. That, coupled with extreme exhaustion and the knowledge that Marty is just several feet away, is so reassuring that he has no trouble falling asleep.

Marty, on the other hand, is about as far from sleeping as he’s ever been. His brain keeps replaying the day- handing Rust the box of Camels, watching him cry in the parking lot, lifting him into the truck. Marty thinks again that he may be insane for helping Rust escape the confines of the hospital in his current state. He decides to drive back tomorrow morning to pick up anything Rust may have left behind and get the prescription for his pain meds.

 _What ifs_ keep fluttering through his brain, circling around and prodding him relentlessly. _What if this is all a mistake? What if the pain meds wear off too soon? What if something happens and we can’t get back to the hospital in time? What if Rust decides he doesn’t want to keep living? What if I can’t take care of him?_

Marty jams his knuckles into his eyes, making white spots appear in the pitch black. He tells himself not to think so hard, that it’ll drive him crazy, but the floor is too hard and his brain is too awake and fuck if he doesn’t keep having the urge to check that Rust is still breathing.

 

Around two in the morning Rust’s gravelly and sleep-filled voice cuts through the silence in the room. “Marty.”

Marty sits up, rubbing his face blearily. “Yeah, Rust, what is it?”

“Gotta take a piss,” he mutters. “Sorry, didn’t want to wake you, but…”

“Don’t gotta apologize,” Marty says, padding over to the bed and helping Rust up. “That’s why I’m here, remember? Besides, I wasn’t sleepin’ anyway.”

Rust sways more than he had before and Marty wonders if it’s because he’s half asleep or because the pain meds are wearing off. “Want me to wait out here?” Marty asks with a frown, wondering how Rust plans on making it to the toilet. The counter doesn’t reach close enough for him to hold on to it.

“You gettin’ shy? Fuck, Marty, ain’t like you haven’t seen my dick before.” He gestures down vaguely with his free hand.

“Yeah, yeah,” Marty grumbles, pondering how much his life had changed in the span of a few weeks. It seemed like one moment Rust was still just a memory, a ten-year-old illusion that brought nothing but pain and regret, and the next moment he was the all-too-real, solid piece of six-foot human complete with ponytail and dry humor currently being held up as he takes a piss in Marty’s bathroom. The complete absurdity of it all makes Marty shake his head in the darkness.

Tired as he is, Marty lets one hand slip down to Rust’s hip before he fully remembers that he isn’t wearing any clothes. He quickly moves that hand and swears he can hear a tiny huff of a chuckle from Rust.

When Rust is finished they move slowly back to the room and Marty helps him get settled again. Marty returns to his makeshift bed in the corner and isn’t lying down for two minutes before Rust’s voice cuts through the blackness again. “You seriously gonna keep up this whole sleepin'-on-the-floor chivalrous bullshit?”

Marty turns to face him, a slight frown tugging at his mouth. “What, you want me to drag the fucking couch in here?”

“Bed’s plenty big enough for two,” Rust states, “and you ain’t doin your back any favors lyin on that wood. C’mon.”

“I ain’t that old yet,” Marty huffs, getting to his knees and making his way to the empty side of the bed. “You sure you’re ok with this, Rust? I don’t want to make this awkward or anything.” Marty rubs the back of his neck and feels Rust’s eyes on him in the darkness.

“I think we’re a little past ‘awkward’ by now, don’t you?” Rust drawls, trying to keep from sounding too exasperated. Only Marty would be ok helping a man take a piss and then feel weird about sleeping next to him.

“Yeah, I guess,” Marty agrees, slipping under the sheets and letting himself relax into the pillows. He figures after everything they went through, their personal boundaries will inevitably have shifted somewhat.

Rust doesn’t say anything else but he feels distinctly better having Marty at just an arm’s length away from him. The same feeling from when Marty first helped him into the truck earlier that evening washes over him again, and the contentment settles warm in his chest as he thinks once again that maybe things are going to be all right.

Marty also feels better, not only because the bed is about a hundred times more comfortable than the floor but also because he can very clearly hear Rust breathing just a foot away from him. Having him this close allows some of the worry to slowly disappear from Marty’s brain. He finds falling asleep much easier this time around.

 

When Marty opens his eyes several hours later, the weak light of early morning is just creeping around the curtains covering the windows. It takes him a few minutes to completely wake up and he finds that he must have shifted onto his side during the night. More importantly, however, Rust is positively snuggling him, his body melting into Marty’s from behind. One arm is curled around Marty’s side, his large hand relaxing against Marty’s ribs. Marty can feel Rust’s face buried into the space between his shoulder blades, warm air occasionally puffing out there comfortably. Marty doesn’t even want to think about how their legs got as tangled up as they did.

He feels a hollow pang at having Rust cuddle into him like this. It’s been so long since anyone has done so. Back when he was married, some mornings he would wake up to Maggie’s arms around him, her face so peaceful she looked like she would never want to move. Then came the years of hookups and casual flings, but all physical contact during that time was rushed, forced, too quick and too cheap to really mean anything. It's nothing like this lazy, calm sense of just being held. The worst part for Marty is that Rust has no idea he’s doing it.

Marty carefully detangles himself and slips out of bed, shushing the part of himself that wants to stay lying there, pretending to be asleep for as long as he can. Rust murmurs something unintelligible in his sleep and rolls up in the sheets, hand still resting on the place Marty had been seconds before. Despite the mustache and ponytail, Rust looks much younger in the early, pink light of morning and for a moment Marty sees his seventeen-year past self curled up on the bed.

 _How did we get here?_ Marty thinks, tearing his eyes away and moving silently around the room as he pulls on a pair of jeans and a shirt. It takes him nearly ten minutes of searching the house before he finds the old landline phone that he hadn’t used in maybe a year. He leaves it on the bedside table with the words “Gone to pick up a few things, should be back in an hour. Call me if you need anything” scrawled onto a post-it note. He underlines ‘anything’ several times for emphasis.

Marty experiences a moment of doubt about leaving Rust here alone but really doesn’t want to wake him. The idea of making Rust suffer through another bumpy car ride isn’t a pleasant one. Marty thinks about calling someone so that he doesn’t have to leave but realizes his list of contacts is fairly short these days. Shaking his head, he steels himself and leaves the house.

 

 

Rust dials Marty’s number and waits for two rings before he’s answering with a concerned “What’s wrong?”

“Nothin’, Marty,” he responds truthfully. “Just wonderin’ how things are goin’.” He doesn’t say that upon waking up and finding the bed empty, his first instinct was to grab the phone and call.

Marty’s breath crackles like static over the line as he sighs in relief. “So far so good. Only left about forty-five minutes ago. Didn’t want to wake you up, you looked like you could use the extra sleep.”

“Mm,” Rust hums into the phone. “You go back to the hospital?”

“Yep. Somebody had to go get all the crap you left behind. Got your wallet here, your phone.”

“Told you, I don’t need any of that,” Rust says, drawing his foot up in the sheets and enjoying the feel of them. They were nothing like the stiff material of the hospital sheets.

Marty snorts. “Course not. I also had a real nice chat with the doctor. Seemed to think I was responsible for kidnapping your ass outta there. Took me forever to explain that you’re just batshit crazy. Gave me a fucking novel on aftercare that we’re gonna have to look through. Oh also,” there’s shuffling on the other side of the line, “I got your prescription for pain killers, on my way to pick them up from the pharmacy right now. Need anything from the store while I’m there?”

“Naw,” he says aloud, thinking that he could use some of those meds right about now. Whatever they had been giving him in the hospital has mostly left his system. The pain has gotten much worse than before, but dealing with pain is nothing new. Nothing he couldn't put on a face about and ignore for the time being.

“Alright. Well should be home soon. See you in a few,” Marty says, and the line goes dead. Rust places the phone back on the stand and lets himself relax into the pillows. He studies the room, taking in every detail he was too tired to notice the night before. Besides the bed and side tables there isn’t much furniture. A wooden dresser stands against the side wall, mirrored across the room by a small bookshelf stacked with paperbacks. He’s intrigued by what books Marty has collected over the years and can’t remember him ever reading much back in the day. Beside the bookshelf is a desk and chair, scattered with papers, pens, an old grey laptop, and a picture frame that’s tilted so that he can’t see who its occupants are. The room isn’t exactly neat but there’s a sense of order, like everything is placed exactly where Marty wanted it to be.

He’s still examining details of the room when Marty gets home. Marty helps him into a pair of sweatpants and a t-shirt, both too large for Rust but he isn’t complaining, and gets him down the hallway into the living room where he can relax on the couch.

Marty comes back into the room carrying two large Styrofoam cups, a packet of papers jammed up under one arm. “Picked up smoothies on the way home. Figured it would be better than me tryin’ to cook you anything. Got you blueberry, I’m stickin’ with chocolate.”

Rust takes the cup and shoots Marty an amused glance. “Didn’t know they made chocolate smoothies. Don’t think it counts if there’s no fruit in it.”

“Oh fuck off, like I need health tips from the guy who survived the last ten years on nothin' but booze and cigarettes.” He pulls a pill bottle out of his pocket and flips it open, tapping one into his hand and tossing it to Rust. “Here, it says to take with liquid so drink up. Doc said you can take one every eight to twelve hours.”

Rust picks up the tiny capsule between two fingers and stares at it, eyes flicking up to Marty accusingly before popping it into his mouth.

“Already know you’re gonna fight me on that, but just know that you ain’t gettin’ anywhere near this bottle till it's time for your next one,” Marty tells him earnestly. “Here,” he says, throwing the large packet of papers onto the cushion beside Rust and pointing to it. “This is all the care instructions. You read through it, I’ll take a look at it later.”

Rust picks up the packet and casually tosses it away from him onto the coffee table. “I ain’t fucking reading that.”

Marty feels his eyebrows raise. “Yeah you sure as hell fucking are. Unless you got some prior medical experience I don’t know about.”

Rust shakes his head. “Already know the basics, Marty. Just gotta wait for this thing to heal.”

Marty stares at him for a few seconds before storming into the other room muttering, “Unbelievable. You are un- _fucking-_ believable. Where are my reading glasses?”

“What was all that talk about you not being that old?” Rust asks, receiving a middle finger in response.

“You better watch your mouth or I’m gonna beat your crippled ass,” Marty tells him, finding his glasses on the kitchen counter and shoving them onto his face before settling onto the other side of the couch and picking up the packet of information. “Just remember, you did this to yourself.”

“You gonna fucking read this out loud or something?” Rust asks, receiving a glare in response.

“Yeah, and you better fucking listen to this shit.” Marty fixes his glasses and starts in, “Regarding patient care-”

“Are you fucking serious?” Rust cuts him off, and Marty pushes his tongue into his cheek to stop an angry retort.

“We gonna have to fight about this or can you chill the fuck out and let me read?”

Rust doesn’t reply, squinting a bit at Marty and sipping his smoothie in a dignified silence.

“Good.” Marty clears his throat. “Regarding patient care….”

It takes almost a full hour for Marty to get through the packet, made longer by the fact that he stops after anything particularly important saying “You hear that, Rust?” and then repeating it again.

Rust fights an internal battle of irritation and amusement, amusement finally winning out. Marty looks so damn funny with his glasses pushed up his nose and his forehead crinkled as he makes his way down page after page. Rust wonders why Marty cares so much, wonders how long he can _keep_ caring before he decides that Rust isn’t worth the time and effort. Rust settles back into the couch with his smoothie, watching Marty and deciding to just enjoy his company while it lasts.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright. This was a relatively happy chapter overall. They're both getting settled in, and I wanted to create a nice bubble before any issues crop up. Let me know what you think:)


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sorry I haven't updated in a while! Life caught up with me there for a few weeks.

Two days after his escape from the hospital, Rust falls for the first time.

Marty isn’t home, having finally decided to get Rust some of his own clothes instead of continuing to let him borrow. Not that Marty particularly minds sharing but Rust is much thinner than he is and looks ridiculous wearing only oversized t-shirts and sweatpants with the waistband rolled up several times. He asks Rust to make a list of what he needs and then heads to the store, not letting Rust come along for the drive.

Marty has only been gone twenty minutes when it happens. Rust hasn’t told Marty about the dizzy spells, not wanting him to worry any more than he already does. Rust figures it’s just due to a bad mix of pain meds and not eating or sleeping well.

He’s walking down the hallway when the world starts spinning, the walls tilting and the floor coming up to meet him. The next thing he knows he’s on the floor on his side, pain throbbing in his arm and hip. He lies there for a few moments, trying to let his brain adjust and his sight return to normal. The dizziness is passing but it still takes nearly ten minutes for him to get completely off the floor and to the couch.

When Marty gets home he asks if anything happened while he was gone and Rust merely shrugs. Marty doesn't need to know.

“I managed not to burn the house down,” he says casually, and Marty snorts.

Rust tries not to favor his left side when he walks, but _fuck_ his hip hurts. He thinks he’s done a fairly good job of hiding any evidence, but while they’re getting dinner ready Marty stops suddenly and points.

“What’s that?”

Rust frowns, continuing to break up a head of lettuce into wedges. “What’s what?”

“Your arm,” Marty says, striding over and grabbing Rust’s arm to get a better view of the half-hidden purple smudges that caught his eye.

Rust huffs in irritation and pulls away. “Nothing, Marty, don’t get so fucking excited.”

Marty stares at him and Rust can hardly remember the last time he had looked this intense. “Let me see your arm. Right fucking now.”

Rust hesitates, then slowly extends his arm to Marty. Marty gently angles his arm into the light, pushing up his rolled sleeve to get a clearer view of the fresh bruises that start on his forearm and surround his elbow.

“You fell.” It isn’t a question. Marty’s eyes lift from Rust’s arm to his face and Rust looks away. He hadn’t known the bruises were there, they hadn’t been earlier when he’d checked. He had seen the large dark stain spreading across his hip and outer thigh but hadn’t thought to make sure that his arm was out of view.

He doesn’t want Marty to look at him this way, doesn’t want Marty to feel like he can’t leave him on his own, doesn’t want to shove more responsibility onto the man who shouldn’t have to deal with these problems anyway. Marty’s face is drawn with concern, though, and Rust already knows what’s coming.

“Shit, Rust, why didn’t you fucking tell me?” Marty asks, his forehead wrinkling as his eyebrows draw together.

“Didn’t want you to worry,” Rust admits, still refusing to meet Marty’s gaze. “Isn’t too bad, I’m fine.”

“No, Rust.” Marty’s fingers won’t release Rust’s arm. “This isn’t fine. Did you pass out?”

“Fuck, Marty, no I didn’t pass out,” he frowns. “I just tried to push myself too much and got dizzy, it’s no big thing.”

“Is it just your arm?” Marty asks, eyes flicking down as though he could x-ray Rust and see any other places that might be hurt. “Did you hit your side? Are your stitches ok?”

 _Of course I checked the stitches, I’m not an idiot,_ he thinks in irritation. “Just the arm, Marty. Threw it up, braced myself. Didn’t even hurt, really, I must have just hit it wrong.”

“Why don’t I believe you?” Marty asks bluntly.

They stare at each other for several moments before Rust caves in. Normally he would have stood his ground but the effort is exhausting him and Marty’s intense gaze is keeping him fixed in place. “Landed on my hip. Still hurts. You fucking satisfied now?”

“Jesus, Rust, no I’m not satisfied!” Marty exclaims, his eyes tightening around the edges. “I’m just worried to hell. How bad does it hurt? You need me to take a look?”

 “Fuck,” Rust says angrily, “can you back the fuck off for five seconds?”

“No, actually, I can’t,” Marty says testily. “I need you to tell me if something like this happens, Rust. No more of this ‘I’m fine’ bullshit.”

“Alright, Marty,” Rust shrugs him off.

“I’m fucking serious,” Marty snaps. “You can’t hide this shit from me, man. If anything ever happens again- and I don’t just mean falling, I mean fucking _anything_ \- you have to tell me. I’m not kidding.”

“I said _alright,_!” Rust snaps back, wrenching his arm out of Marty’s grasp and limping out of the room.

Marty thinks about following him but hangs back, knowing that at this point it won't do any good. It was just like Rust, not telling him something this important and then getting angry when Marty reacted like any sane human would.  _It's because I care about you, you bastard,_ Marty thinks with a shake of his head.

Thirty minutes later Marty brings Rust a plate of food and an ice pack. Rust lets Marty settle onto the couch next to him without a word, but when Marty's arm ends up draped across the back of the couch behind his shoulders Rust leans into it without a second thought. 

 

 

When Rust falls for the second time two days later, he doesn’t have time to call for Marty. He reaches out for the back of the couch but can’t quite make it before the world tilts and he blacks out entirely.

Marty is in the bedroom when he hears the thud. “Rust?” he calls, receiving no response. He sets down the lightbulb he’s fixing to replace and strolls down the hallway to the living room. “Rust? You ok?” he asks, rounding the corner to find Rust sprawled face down on the floor by the side of the couch.

“Rust!” Marty exclaims with a jolt of panic, rushing over and dropping to his knees. “Fuck, Rust, shit, shit.” The expletives flow of their own accord as Marty rolls Rust over with shaking hands, getting a knee behind him and hoisting him into a sitting position against the edge of the couch. “Look at me, Rust. Hey, hey, wake up.” His heart is racing. He tries to feel for a pulse but can’t tell if it’s just his own heartbeat throbbing in his fingertips.

Rust’s eyes flutter open and he blinks slowly in confusion as the world comes back into focus, Marty’s face crammed up in his line of vision.

“Marty?” The word comes out as half a question.

“Yeah, Rust, hey,” Marty says in relief. “Think you passed out.”

“Mh. Feel dizzy,” Rust mutters, his head dropping forward onto Marty’s chest. Marty’s hand moves up to rest on the back of Rust’s neck, using his thumb to wipe away the cold line of sweat trickling down from his hairline.

“Let’s get you onto the couch, c’mon,” Marty says, gently slipping an arm around Rust and lifting him to his feet before letting him settle on the couch. Marty props up a few pillows behind Rust to keep him in a sitting position before hurrying to the kitchen to get a glass of water. “Try to drink all this, you’re probably dehydrated,” Marty tells him.

“Think it’s the pain pills,” Rust says between gulps of water, Adam's apple bobbing up and down as he swallows down the whole glass.

“We can worry about that in a sec. Let me check you over,” Marty says, and Rust lets him without too much complaint. Marty’s hands push up his shirt to check that the stitches holding him together are undisturbed, fingers so careful that Rust swears Marty thinks he could fall apart at any second.

One of Marty’s hands moves to Rust’s face, thumb running along his jaw and gently tipping his face to the side. “You’re gonna have a nasty bruise here.”

Rust realizes how close Marty is, how their faces are just inches apart. He feels a slight tingle along the skin where Marty’s thumb is tracing, watching as Marty’s eyes flick from his jaw to his mouth and finally up to his eyes. There’s a moment where it seems both of them are frozen, but then time switches back to normal and Marty is clearing his throat and shifting back on the couch to where he can check Rust’s legs for any injury.

“Legs feel ok?” he asks. “Hips, knees?”

“Left knee feels sore,” he sighs, letting Marty push up his sweatpants to take a look.

“I’ll get you some ice,” Marty tells him. “And no more of those pills till we can get a different prescription. In the mean time you gotta be extra careful.”

Rust watches as Marty strides from the room and returns with an icepack, sitting on the couch and scooping Rust’s leg onto his lap to where he can easily hold the ice against his knee. Marty flips on the tv, eyes stuck on the screen while his free hand absentmindedly rubs along the curve of Rust’s calf.

Rust could swear Marty is purposefully avoiding eye contact with him.

He wonders if there are other things Marty is avoiding.


End file.
